Another brief fic about Mort. I may put out something longer and more interesting when I feel it's ready for "publishing". I do not own Warcraft, Blizz does. Mort is my character, however.
The grayness had become familiar. No patch of ground, no tree was spared. Each step in what had once been Lordaeron was a sad and dangerous one. Mortimer took several, though not without caution. What remained of his homeland was all trying to kill him. Human survivors would attack him on sight. Scourge would tear him apart and feed him to the ghouls. His footsteps took him to a small pond, murky and stained with red.
An elf's corpse lay slumped near the opposite edge. Black hair, pale skin, dark blood which stood out on white clothes. A priest, in life. Nothing, in death.
Mortimer wasn't much himself. Still, he jumped, and spun around, drawing his rusty, beaten sword as he heard a voice sing out behind him.
"Hold, stranger!" called the man behind him once more. He was a tall, grey corpse, with dirt-caked brown hair and large, round glasses. Clad in armor which looked as though it had been thrown together haphazardly, he was still in a better state than Mort, and his yellow eyes gleamed with intelligence.
"Have you heard the news? The Dark Lady has saved us all! You need not wander these plague-lands aimlessly, as though He had his grasp on you still! The Forsaken are rising!"
Mortimer gave him a doubtful look. Was this some new form of trickery, contrived by Arthas' wily necromancers? Unlikely, given that all he would really have to do to pull most of the now-intelligent bodies wandering what had once been Lordaeron back together would be to find them and chain them up. Certainly the so called Scarlet Crusade would not resort to false messengers of freedom to lure in new prisoners for torture. This was something new, perhaps something genuine.
"You have not heard? You doubt the truth of my words. That's alright. In fact, it's reasonable. If you'd rather not follow me, that's fine, but know that I am now returning to base. There are medics, food, water, friendly troops, and places to sleep there. If you choose to come, you will be well treated, once the guards have confirmed that you retain your free will."
With those words, the man walked away.
Mortimer thought for a moment, then followed.